


An Inconvenient Ruse

by IowaAppDesigner (tulipwriter)



Category: Political RPF - US 21st c.
Genre: Alternate Universe, Conspiracy Story, Eventual Romance, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Inspired by Twitter, M/M, Politics
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-05
Updated: 2020-09-28
Packaged: 2021-02-28 02:54:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,364
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22576663
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tulipwriter/pseuds/IowaAppDesigner
Summary: Pete Buttigieg wanted to be President. America wanted him to be gay.A simple arrangement. Until he started to fall in love with his pretend boyfriend...
Relationships: Chasten Buttigieg/Pete Buttigieg
Comments: 70
Kudos: 86





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I'm not a social media person but I discovered this thing called Twitter-- anyone ever heard of it?-- and I discovered the newly popular theory that Pete Buttigieg is pretending to be gay to advance his political career. I wrote out a dramatic rendering of how this ruse may have unfolded:

\- THE SETUP -

Pete Buttigieg opened his door in the middle of the night and waved his team inside, keeping a look out for spying neighbors. The members had driven up without headlights and parked several blocks away, but one could never be overly careful. His would-be campaign manager jumped out of the hydrangea bushes where he’d been hiding, waiting for the rest of the crew to arrive. His new communications director slinked in from some area of the dark Pete couldn’t see and, frankly, didn’t want to know about. When everyone was gathered, he shut the door behind them as quietly as possible.

“What’s the verdict?” Pete asked. He saw no reason to delay.

“Well, there’s good news and there’s bad news,” one of his team said.

He sighed. There was always good and bad news. What was he paying these people for if they were just going to tell him the same thing as all the other teams assembled before them?

“Your tour in Afghanistan, Harvard graduate, Rhodes scholar, all positives.”

Pete bopped his head along with his words, like a song on the radio he’d heard dozens of times before.

“Your resume is too thin,” his new coms director piped in, uninvited. “You are one cocky bastard for thinking you could jump from a medium sized college town in flyover country to the highest office in the land.”

Pete knew this, too, but he liked the way this woman blurted it out in blunt language. And so early into their sales pitch. The other teams usually bullshitted him and stroked his ego a while longer, at least getting through some of the snacks first.

“I did a focus group.”

Now he was listening. Pete Buttigieg lived for focus groups.

“As you know, the one done for your name paid dividends.”

He nodded. “I’m quite pleased with my successful rebranding as ‘Pete.’”

Pete Buttigieg had a memorable, unusual last name that worked well in politics. The process of explaining the jumbled Maltese mess to native English speakers was a boon, allowing him to connect with voters in a way the Smiths of this country could only ever dream. But his first name? A disaster. His previous team had used a focus group to test out several presidential-sounding Christian names and landed on Pete. Peter, if one must. The expense of scrubbing his given name from his records, and paying off people, had been considerable, but it had worked.

“The only winning formula in American politics right now is identity politics. A white man will never hold the office of the presidency again. While being Maltese does make you an unusual shade of white, you are still… white. And a cisgendered male. There’s no hope for you. You know this.”

Pete sighed. “I thought I was paying you to find a loophole.”

“And I found one. The focus group was decisive. America is clamoring for a gay president.”

No surprise there. The United States was one of the most socially progressive countries in the world and incredibly welcoming to gay men in particular. Gay marriage was not legal yet, but that was simply a formality. Pete didn’t see what any of this had to do with him.

“How is that a loophole?”

She rolled her eyes. “Can I see proof of this Harvard degree?”

The realization finally hit him. “You want me to be the gay candidate.”

“There’s hope for this guy yet,” she said to the group, who started to nervously chuckle, torn between appreciating the joke and wanting to make sure their paycheck didn’t bounce.

“I’m not gay.”

She shrugged. “Fake it. We’ll find you a non-threatening partner. Someone who is still masculine but conforms a little more tightly to the gay stereotype. Someone who has a bunch of female friends and listens to show tunes. Maybe has a couple of cats.”

“Why can’t I be a gay bachelor? Isn’t that a less complicated ruse?” And less likely to hurt some innocent party. This team’s fee, should he agree to hire them on full time, was a quarter of a million dollars, with a million dollar bonus if he became president within the next decade. He hated to think of the poor, lost soul out there who needed some of that money badly enough to sign his life away.

His manager shook his head. “That only works for a narrow window. You need to pretend to come out of the closet because you’re looking to have a family. As much as America loves gay men, they love _wholesome_ gay men most of all. They want to have the fantasy of you moving next door, doing a fabulous home remodel, and raising children. You would need to start dating within a couple of months. One, dedicated fake partner is less messy than a series of dates you found on Grindr.”

Pete shuddered at the thought of using any dating app.

He looked around the room. “You’re all in agreement.”

“I was the last hold out,” his manager said. “I’ve known you for a long time, and, I’ll admit, it’s a little awkward for me to be asking you to do this. But the more I thought about it… this could be good for you, Pete. When you’re not at work, you’re puttering around this enormous house, alone. Eating, alone. Watching television and drinking beer, alone. You haven’t dated in a decade. I promise I’ll find you a partner who will be a friend. Then at least you’ll have that.”

Pete drew in a breath. “Do it.”


	2. Chapter 2

\- THE NEGOTIATION -

Pete met his new intended “boyfriend” in his studio apartment in Chicago. He scanned the space for listening devices, as he’d been trained to do, and, as he searched, it sadly became more and more apparent why this man would sell himself to the highest political bidder. His living space was about the size of Pete’s kitchen. The one sink dripped, the floor was littered with rat traps and there was a stack of overdue bills on the rickety bistro table he appeared to use as both an eating area and a school desk.

The young man, and he was _young_ , watched him with uneasy eyes. Pete had to congratulate his team. On optics, they hit it out of the park. The man was the perfect height, in that he was the same height as Pete, which was vitally important for pictures. Voters didn’t trust shorter men. Pete might not be gay, but he could tell his soon-to-be fake boyfriend was attractive, but not so good looking as to be intimidating. He appeared as if he spent time in the gym, but didn’t live there, and had a bit of softness that indicated he maybe even overindulged sometimes. It was disarming and relatable to a voting population that was always on a fad diet. Women voters would love him.

“How did you get your name?” Pete asked.

Chasten Something. He liked it. It was unique without being complicated, gay seeming without being too gay.

Chasten appeared thrown by the question. He shrugged. “My parents gave it to me.”

“You didn’t focus group it?” Amazing how things worked out sometimes.

Chasten just stared at him and blinked.

“Are you sick?” Pete gestured toward the medical bills on the table.

“My mom. I’m doing this to help her.”

“Can I ask how much ‘help’ my team is providing you?”

“A hundred grand. I put in three years and then I’m debt free and I can provide for my parents.”

Pete whistled. His team was fronting a considerable portion of their fee on this project. They really must have been banking on that million dollar bonus.

“You don’t expect you’d want to renew the contract?” 

The terms of the arrangement dictated three years, eighteen months of them spent living together. There was an option to continue the relationship after that for another two hundred thousand dollars (Pete would get one of his billionaire donors to pay it). That would include a marriage, but, if all was going well, what could be the harm?

Chasten stared at Pete like he was insane.

“Why are you in debt?” He changed the subject.

“I’m going back to school to become a teacher.”

Fantastic. Pete loved teachers. Voters loved teachers. “People like you are the reason I want to be president, Chasten. I have plans to make college free for middle income students and to make medical debt a thing of the past. You can be proud to be part of this project we’re launching.”

Chasten snorted. “I’m glad you want to save the world, Mr. Buttigieg. But you’re not exactly above taking advantage of the current system, are you?”

He had him dead to rights there. “Not many people would have had the nerve to talk to me like that. Not when I’m offering them what I’m offering you.”

“It’s going to be a long three years if we’re not honest with each other.”

“Notice I didn’t say I didn’t like it.”

Chasten smirked a little.

He wanted to get to know Chasten more. The more he understood about this man, the more successful their arrangement would be. But he didn’t know where to start. He thought back to what a member of his team had said at their strategy meeting: _We’ll find you a non-threatening partner. Someone who has a bunch of female friends and listens to show tunes. Maybe has a couple of cats._

“Do you have a lot of female friends?”

Again, Chasten appeared thrown by the inquiry.

“I have a mix of friends. Same as everyone else, I suppose.”

Pete nodded, but, in actuality, he didn’t really have any female friends, not close ones at least. There were women he liked, even more he admired, but for some reason he never sought out female companionship beyond the few girlfriends sprinkled throughout his high school and college tenures. He didn’t find it necessary. He supposed it was different for gay men.

“Do you like show tunes?”

Chasten shrugged. “I like some and not others. Do you want my opinion on Cher? Perhaps Barbara Streisand?”

He ignored that. “Do you like cats?”

“Do you want me to like cats?”

“I’m more of a dog person, but I could live with a cat.”

“I’m a dog person, too.”

He considered that a victory and perked up a bit.

“Do I get to ask any questions here?” Chasten tapped his foot, like he was counting down the seconds until this meeting was over.

Pete considered his request. Technically, Chasten was the hired help in this situation. His input was not needed at all. But, still, it seemed only fair. “Shoot.”

“What’s your deal?”

“My deal?” Pete noticed that when Chasten spoke he was very expressive with his hands. He liked that. He made a mental note to attempt it himself. He’d been told his arms laid beside him like dead fish when he spoke.

“Are you straight? Asexual? Gay but can’t find your own date? I’m trying to figure out what has made you this desperate.”

Pete bristled. He owed Chasten several things. Respect. Kindness. Not to mention a hundred thousand dollars. He did not owe him an explanation of his romantic life, or lack thereof.

“I’m ambitious, not desperate. You don’t need to concern yourself with my private life. I can promise you I’ll be faithful to our arrangement. I won’t be caught with some side piece. I won’t make a joke of you.”

“No. I suppose I’m doing a good enough job of that on my own.”

There was a sadness there. Pete wondered if three years would be enough to get to the bottom of it.

“I want you to know I don’t hold you to the same standard. I glanced over the contract and I know there’s a clause that prohibits outside entanglements. I don’t think that’s fair to you. There are ways it can be handled discreetly. Just come to me first.”

Chasten shook his head. “I’ve dated enough for a lifetime.”

“You’re twenty-six.”

“So that should give you a good idea of some of the experiences I’ve had.”

He didn’t know how to respond to that.

“I read your coming out op-ed in the Tribune. It was inspiring. How much of it is true?”

Pete shrugged. “Almost none of it.”

Honestly, he didn’t even remember what it said. He’d written the first draft, but, after that, it got passed around his team and then their Harvard professor on retainer, and then their contact in the CIA before going to print. He did remember writing something about having brown hair. That part was honest, at least.

“That’s a shame,” Chasten said. “The world would be a better place if there was a real fake Pete Buttigieg out there.”

Once again, Pete had a loss for words. He was intrigued, the way Chasten kept throwing him for a loop.

“Are we on for our first fake date this weekend?”

“I mean, I signed the contract. And you don’t _seem_ like a serial axe murderer. Next time, though, I don’t want to have to answer for a bunch of gay stereotypes I can only assume you found on the internet. Barring that, we’re on for the date.”

Pete insisted they shake on it, like a proper business deal. It was the start of a fruitful partnership. He could feel it.

*****

Now it was Pete’s turn to show Chasten around his place. Chasten would be spending a good amount of time here, and Pete wanted to give him the lay of the land. But Chasten’s disinterest in the whole tour was irking him. He seemed utterly unimpressed with Pete’s house, his homeownership status, his piano, his framed pictures of himself with politicians, his book collection. Pete had never encountered anything like it. He made a special point of showing off his degrees from Harvard and Oxford, which he had framed in his office. No reaction whatsoever.

“This is your room.” 

Pete pushed open the door to what was once the guest room but was now Chasten’s. He was especially proud of this. He had wanted to create a private space where Chasten could feel at ease during his time in South Bend. He took care to select one of those mattresses in a box he thought might be comfortable for him, although no one had warned him how heavy they were. He decorated the room in the greys and navy blues he sensed Chasten favored. There was a space set up for his studies and a new smart television atop the dresser for when he wanted to relax.

“It’s not much, and we have to share the one hall bathroom, but I hope it’s suitable.” He realized he was all but begging Chasten to correct him with effusive praise.

Instead, Chasten threw his overnight bag onto the bed and declared it “fine.”

“I’m going to change for our date. What are you planning to wear?”

He looked down at his polo and jeans. “This.”

Chasten took stock of his appearance. “If you say so.”

It took Pete a minute to realize he was being dismissed, having had no prior experience in people not wanting him around. Chasten grabbed the door to the room he seemed rather ungrateful about and softly closed it in Pete’s face.

He was discovering that this Chasten was one a strange fellow.

*****

“Where are we headed?” Chasten was driving his rental car, taking intermittent instructions from Pete.

“It’s called Fiddler’s Hearth. It’s a great venue. Very public. Lots of prying eyes. Then, if the date is going well, I have two tickets to the local minor league baseball team.”

“Will the date go well?”

“That’s the story I’m going to tell everyone, yes.”

“So dinner at a greasy pub and then watching paint dry.”

“Welcome to South Bend. Turn left at the light.”

Pete took it as a good omen that his favorite high top table was available when they arrived at Fiddler’s. He ordered two beers at the bar and had barely returned when the mayoral onslaught began. People wanting to meet his date. People thinking it would help his date to share an amusing anecdote or two about him. People who ignored Chasten and wanted to talk business. People complaining about the duck pond. A girl who had lost her cat. Pete designed a plan of how his office could help in feline retrieval and wrote down his personal number for her.

“Don’t be afraid to call,” Pete said, sending her along. “And let me know if you find Sparkles, okay?”

He turned back to Chasten. “Sorry about all that. Duty calls. You’ll get used to it.”

To his surprise, Chasten was smiling at him. He had never seen him smile before. He didn’t hate it.

“They love you.”

Pete shrugged, but he could feel he was starting to blush a little. “I’d like to think so.”

“What do you even need me for, then? This reelection should be a cakewalk.”

“You never know. I lost by 6,000 votes last time, and only took office thanks to a complicated series of coin flips. I’m not taking anything for granted. Besides, I have higher ambitions, as you know.”

“You were especially good with the little girl.”

Pete beamed at the compliment. “Wouldn’t it be great if she found that cat? I’ve been wanting to award the key to the city to an animal. Can you imagine the press?”

And just like that Chasten’s face froze again and he went back to seeming bored.

Pete cleared his throat. “We should probably get to know each other, like a real first date.”

“You’re right. I lost perspective there for a moment. Let’s do this.” Chasten took a swig of his IPA. “Do you play any instruments?”

The next hour passed in pleasant conversation. Chasten finally seemed to drop his standoffish nature. He was appropriately impressed with the story of the time Pete played with the South Bend Symphony Orchestra. He leaned in to soak up every word as Pete shared with him his highlights as mayor. He laughed at his jokes, and flashed shy little smiles Pete would catch out of the corner of his eye. In turn, Pete learned that Chasten had brothers and a (utterly useless) degree in theater. He detailed the plot of a show he was binge watching on Netflix, and Pete made a note to start watching it, too.

They only hit one snag when Chasten segwayed to a very odd line of questioning.

“Why are you staring at him?”

Pete snapped out of his thoughts. “Huh?”

“The guy who just walked by our table. You were watching him.”

Pete was an avid observer and people watcher by nature. He didn’t even realize he’d been staring and figured he was simply appreciating a nice looking man, like one would appreciate art. He wasn’t a cave dweller; he could admit when a man was handsome. But how to explain this to someone as unsophisticated as Chasten?

“Oh, I was looking at his jeans. I wanted to see the logo. I’m in the market for a few new pairs.”

Chasten quirked up an eyebrow and said nothing, but seemed to buy the explanation.

Everything considered, Pete was having a great date. He started to think there might be something to their new friendship. He knew what he had to do. He ordered the scotch egg.

“What’s this?” Chasten eyed the bar snack with suspicion.

“It’s an egg, wrapped in sausage and then deep fried…”

Chasten put his hand up. “Stop. You had me at sausage.”

Pete grabbed a knife to split it, giving Chasten the larger half. He tried a bite and moaned in appreciation.

“Thank you for introducing me to this, Peter.”

“Peter?”

Chasten nodded. “It seemed like something your friends and family would call you, while Pete was reserved for your public persona.”

That was a good idea. He decided he might steal it. “This egg is South Bend, Chasten. If you’re up for this, you can handle anything.”

Chasten smiled again, and Pete decided he could get used to that.

*****

Once they were back in the car, Chasten’s mood seemed to shift on a dime, leaving Pete feeling cold and confused. They had such a great time at Fiddler’s, or so he thought, but now getting a word from him was like pulling teeth.

“Let’s get this over with.” Chasten slammed the driver’s side door shut once he’d parked at the stadium.

“What is with you? You’re so changed from even five minutes ago. I thought you were having a good time.”

“Seriously, Pete? That was _acting_ back at the pub. We were supposed to be on a date, and I _acted_ like I was on a date.”

“Oh.” He really didn’t know what else to say.

“I told you I was a theater major. What else did you expect? Why do you think your team hired me?”

Pete squared his shoulders. He wouldn’t let this affect him. So what if he’d misjudged a burgeoning friendship. He had other friends. “Of course. Very well done. Professional.”

Before the game, he introduced Chasten to the coach and a few of the players, and then went up to the owner’s box where they took a selfie with the mascot. He tried to go through the motions, but his mood had soured. After a few innings, he was ready to end the night.

“Let’s go,” he said near Chasten’s ear. “I want to be seen walking with you along the riverfront.”

“Want to be seen with me, but don’t want to be with me?”

The way he could see through Pete was starting to get annoying.

“Frankly, no. But we’ll go anyway.”

They strolled along the sidewalk, and Pete was determined to enjoy the weather and the view of the water as the sun set.

“I like the colored lights,” Chasten said.

“Those are new. I had the ribbon cutting ceremony last month. It took a bit of effort to wrestle the funds from the council to revitalize this area, but I know it’s worth it when I look at all these families around us, relaxing and having fun. When I was growing up here, we could only have dreamed of something like this.”

Just then, he felt the brush of something against his hand. He pulled away. He felt it again. He heard a muffled sound coming from Chasten: _“grab my hand, moron.”_

After hesitating a second, Pete interlocked his fingers with Chasten’s. He did it slowly and carefully, like they were both made of glass and might break. Pete didn’t like to think he had insecurities, and, as long as he refrained from physical contact with other human beings, he could pretend he didn’t have any. But now he was thrown into a situation where his inadequacies were confronting him, and all he wanted to do was run. He tried to jerk his hand away, but Chasten held on tighter.

“You need to relax,” Chasten whispered. “Touching me isn’t going to turn you gay.”

When they got back to the car, it was completely dark, and, much to Pete’s chagrin, the fireworks had started at the stadium. The parking lot was crowded with onlookers.

“People are staring at us,” Chasten said. “I think I’m going to have to kiss you.”

Pete sighed. For the first time in his life, he wished he wasn’t in politics. “It does seem unavoidable.”

“Close your eyes and think of the White House.”

Chasten leaned into kiss him. It was terrible. It felt like cold jelly was being spread on his lips. He was certain it looked as fake as it felt. He imagined if someone took a still picture of this moment and passed it around Twitter, the ruse would be outed in an hour.

“Get in the car,” Chasten said lowly after he had mercifully broken the kiss. “We need to talk.”

They drove to a spot that would offer a bit more privacy. Chasten cut the engine. Pete had an idea of what was coming.

“I’ll make sure you get to keep the ten thousand dollar advance and that the penalty gets waved,” Pete offered. It was the best he could do. “Even if it comes out of my own pocket.”

“What are you talking about?”

“The contract. It has you over a barrel if you renege. Pretty ironclad. I give my team credit. But don’t think you’re trapped. I’ll find a loophole. I always do.”

“I’m not searching for an out.” Chasten turned to look him in the eye. Pete had never noticed how incredibly blue his irises were before. They were like two slices of the sea. “I wanted to apologize. I’ve been behaving like a horse’s ass.”

“You’re unhappy. I can’t continue this project with an unwilling partner.”

“I’m not unwilling. I’d been having a bad day— a bad life, really— and I took it out on you all night. That was unfair, and I’m sorry. And it wasn’t all acting. I did have a good time tonight. For some of it, at least.”

“Well, then I accept your apology. But, in the future, you need to confide in me. If I had known you were feeling down, I would have delayed the date.”

Chasten nodded. “I did promise I would be honest with you. So in that spirit, here’s the truth: you’re an awkward dude. But you’re also relatively harmless, and I could use some harmless in my life right now. I also did my research. I catalogued your entire career. I watched old videos, read old articles. I think you’d be a great president. I wish we lived in a world where this ruse wasn’t necessary. I wish the real you matched the politician. But when do we ever get everything we want? I guess what I’m saying is... I’m in. For the money, of course, but also because I believe in this project.”

Pete smiled. “Welcome aboard.”

“For God’s sake, learn to kiss, though. Think of an ex-girlfriend if that’s what it takes.”

“I was.”

Chasten sighed. “Good Lord. Why do I get the feeling this is all going to blow up in my face one day? You had better be worth it, Peter Buttigieg.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The bits about Chasten’s name being “gay but not too gay” and passing around a picture to prove they have a staged relationship come directly from Twitter.
> 
> The first chapter started out as a joke inspired by the bro meltdown over Iowa. But I rather like where this story is going and hope you do, too!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I came across an article a couple of weeks ago, where Chasten was still, STILL, being expected to answer to the idea of Pete being the wrong kind of gay. Somehow this nonsense continues to leak out of the dredges of the internet and into legitimate media. So please enjoy a new installment mocking batcrapcrazy Twitter conspiracies.

\- THE AGREEMENT -

They sat on opposite ends of Pete’s couch, killing time before Chasten needed to head home to Chicago. Pete was looking through some budget reports while Chasten made progress on the thousand page fantasy tome he’d started reading a month ago. They were at the point in their fake relationship where Chasten was spending most weekends at his house. When not on prearranged outings, they spent a lot of time indoors in somewhat comfortable silence. He’d anticipated Chasten spending that time alone in his room, but to his surprise Chasten seemed content to camp out wherever Pete was. He wondered if Chasten was lonely in his real life. He knew better than to ask.

“I want to be on the team,” Chasten said.

Pete put down his phone. He’d been scrolling through Twitter feeds his team sent him. Candid shots of him and Chasten were making the rounds on social media. Part of the buzz was manufactured, his communications director having a particular penchant for sock puppet accounts, but it had grown into something organic. South Benders wanted to know more about this new mystery man who was dating their mayor and swapped stories of running into the pair around town. Pete winced at seeing the bungled versions of Chasten’s name (Austin, Justin, Chase), and five different people who graduated from four different high schools all claimed to have been his best friend in the tenth grade. He would see about getting Chasten more consistent branding.

“I thought we hashed this out weeks ago. You’re already on the team. You’re a valued member of Team President Buttigieg.”

Chasten rolled his eyes. “I’m the team’s accessory. I do what I’m instructed to do, act how I’m supposed to act, and pose for the cameras I pretend I don’t see. That was the agreement, and I’m happy to fill my role. What I’m talking about is influence. Right now, our entire gay dating relationship is being orchistrated by a bunch of heterosexual political consultants with commitment issues.”

Those consultants consisted of Ivy League graduates, one of the SEALs who clipped Osama Bin Laden, and a former chair of the DNC. How to put this to Chasten delicately…

“Do you, um, think you’re _qualified_ to have a seat at that table?”

Chasten flashed him a hard stare. “I’m not asking to be invited to the secret lair where your people strategize ways to stuff ballot boxes and install moles in state election boards-- I’m assuming. You won’t win the presidency by overpolishing your resume. You need to appeal to regular voters, and if that display of snobbery was any indication, your coalition is going to be limited to upper middle class white people who still subscribe to the _New York Times_. At this rate, you’ll be the guy who placed second in Iowa before fizzling out into obscurity. If I’m going to spend the next two years, seven months, fourteen days, nine hours and fifty-seven minutes pretending to be your boyfriend, I want it to have mattered.”

“You calculated that number very quickly.” Pete frowned.

Chasten ignored him. “Keeping your wikipedia entry pristine is not going to deliver electoral votes. I can help you overcome your robotic instincts. To plagiarize Gepetto: I’m going to turn you into a real boy, Peter Buttigieg.” 

“What are you suggesting?”

“Well, for starters, I’d like to teach you to eat like an actual human person. Because this is disturbing.” 

Chasten pulled up a picture on his phone, and shoved it in Pete’s face, waiting for a reaction. Pete enjoyed not giving him one. It was a photo of him tucking into the previous morning’s brunch, and the only part that disturbed him was that he hadn’t noticed Chasten taking it. He was letting his guard down, and that could be dangerous.

“You took a picture of me while I was eating? And I’m supposed to be the awkward one in this arrangement?”

“It’s a cinnamon roll, Pete,” Chasten continued. “A _cinnamon roll_. The happiest of all the foods. You’re tearing through it like a rabid jackal that broke into a henhouse.”

“You should write poetry. Chasten, if you want influence, you have it. More than I think you realize. So, sure. Remake me into America’s perfect gay boyfriend.”

“Just because a person identifies as queer...” Chasten paused, considering his words. “You don’t owe it to anyone to shove yourself inside a neat, stereotyped little box. There’s no one correct way to be any sexuality. I’m not trying to remake you. You’ll still be Pete, but a Pete who relates to us mere mortals a tad better.”

“I’m not wearing skinny jeans,” he said. There had to be limits.

“I wouldn’t dream of it.”

*****

Pete wondered if his parents’ dining room had always been the ninth circle of Hell, and he had neglected to notice it until now. He pushed the tiny sliver of cherry pie left on his plate around with his fork, refusing to make eye contact and desperately hoping his phone would buzz with a work emergency. Huddled around the table, his parents and Chasten flipped through an old photo album together, giggling like co-conspirators, and Pete hated it.

“So Peter was a late bloomer with the potty training, huh?”

“Look at the time,” Pete glanced down at his naked wrist.

Chasten affectionately slid his hand on top of Pete’s, and when Pete tried to pull away, he squeezed hard enough to crush Pete’s bones. There were no cameras tonight. Nothing about this evening was destined for public consumption. Under Chasten’s tutelage, they were doing supposedly normal couple things just for the sake of doing them. Like meeting the parents. Logically, Pete knew it was _good_ that Chasten had hit it off with his parents and that this exercise was cementing their cover as a couple. But he still refused to be happy about it.

“Don’t be embarrassed, babe. It’s refreshing to know you didn’t excel at absolutely everything in life. I was starting to think you were hatched in a lab.”

Speaking of other things Pete had not excelled at, Chasten’s comment prompted Pete’s father to pull out a stack of old VHS tapes from when Pete played in a junior basketball league. He had to get out of there.

Chasten glanced over at Pete and cleared his throat. “It is getting a bit late. Thank you for a wonderful evening, but we should really be heading home.”

Once they were outside, and Pete felt like he could breathe again, he drew in a huge gulp of air and almost doubled over.

“I went too far,” Chasten said on the short walk back to Pete’s house. “I’m sorry.”

“It wasn’t you,” Pete said. He clarified, “Well, it wasn’t only you. I love my parents, but sometimes I feel suffocated when I’m around them. Sitting in my old chair at the table, looking through pictures I’ve seen a dozen times, being told to eat my brussel sprouts. Suddenly, I’m fourteen again, plucking the bridge to _November Rain_ and wishing I was someone else.”

Chasten playfully nudged Pete with his elbow. “Come on. Being you couldn’t have been that bad.”

“I had a bowl cut, and I was chubby and wore thick coke bottle glasses. I was bullied. One kid stole my Ninja Turtle eraser and flushed it down the toilet. Well, I got my revenge. I grew up, got elected mayor and then bulldozed his house.”

“Sometimes I can’t decide whether you have a really wicked sense of humor or are just a sociopath.”

Pete smirked. “I really loved that eraser.”

Chasten was silent for a beat. “Is it true you haven’t dated since college? Your parents hinted as much on the house tour while you were out firing up the grill. They were pretty excited you brought someone home. I could have been a cannibal and they still would have given me the biggest slice of pie. Why not tell them the truth? They seem pretty accepting of your naked ambitions. They’d understand.”

Pete sighed. “Because they’ve been waiting to give the biggest slice of pie to someone. I couldn’t take that away from them.”

“You could have that for real. After this is over. I mean, Mark Zukerberg managed to get married.”

“I’m too busy for a relationship.”

“You make time for me.”

“This is a business arrangement. It’s different.”

“I’m not going to get the real story out of you, am I?”

Pete was holding back, and Chasten knew it, and Pete added that to the mental list he was keeping of Chasten’s most annoying qualities.

“It’s not like you share your inner psyche with me.”

Chasten halted. “My parents converted my childhood bedroom into a guest room, and I’m last on the booking list. At night, while a married cousin with kids enjoys my glow-in-the-dark solar system, I toss and turn on the couch, wondering how I fit into my own family. I feel suffocated sometimes, too. And you can let go of my hand now. We’re back at your house.”

Pete glanced down, surprised to find his hand was clutching onto Chasten like a man drowning.

*****

“This seems like less of a date and more of an errand.”

Pete stood before something called a “dollar spot.” He picked up a colorful pinwheel and spun it around, mesmerized by the colors. He didn’t need it, but it was only two dollars…

Chasten grabbed it out of his hands and put it back in the bin. “Don’t get sucked in. And this is a perfect date. We’ve been together for about eight months now, which means we’re past the hot and heavy honeymoon phase and onto the stage where we simultaneously realize we need q-tips. It’s adorable and domestic.”

“The team signed off on this?”

“They’re already in negotiations with Target to launch a collaborative line of whiskey-based barbeque sauces. Which reminds me…” Chasten pulled out a crumpled ball of paper out of his back pocket and handed it to Pete. “This is from your campaign manager. Something about a nine hour conference call with Tom Perez and how you owe him.”

Pete read through the shopping list. He cocked an eyebrow. “A double party-sized bag of peanut M&Ms?”

“I may have added some essentials. We’re putting that on his tab.”

Pete followed Chasten through the store, feeling like a leashed puppy. Even though this place was a mile from his house, it was Chasten who seemed to know where everything was located.

“I don’t need razors,” Pete protested after two were thrown into their cart.

“They’re on sale.”

“Really?” Pete examined the price ticket. That was a good deal. “But why two of them?”

“One is for you, and one is for your boyfriend. You know, the guy who spends enough time at your house to leave personal effects behind. On that note, we need to pick up a toothbrush.”

Pete felt Chasten’s hand drape over his shoulder. It was the kind of touch he’d become acclimated to over the months, and he allowed himself to relax into it. But then Chasten’s hand drifted a bit south and landed on the small of his back, his fingertips grazing below the waistline of his jeans, and Pete recoiled.

He dropped his voice to a near whisper. “Cool it on the PDA. There are kids in this store.”

Chasten laughed. “You can’t be serious. This is how I would act with any other boyfriend.”

Out of the corner of his vision, Pete spotted a middle-aged man who was brazenly snickering at them.

“Ignore him,” Chasten warned.

“I didn’t know homophobes existed these days.”

“They emerge from their bunker every so often for toilet paper runs. I think I’m ready to check out.”

“Chasten…”

“I’ve dealt with worse. Much worse. But I can’t today.”

Pete gently held onto Chasten’s arm. “I’m not much better than that guy, am I? I waited until the culture changed and then swooped right in to take advantage of it. I’m making a mockery of what you’ve struggled through. I can’t imagine what you must think of me.”

Chasten said nothing.

*****

Pete was facing a near certain defeat in the Urals. If he’d known Chasten possessed such a gift for military conquest, he would have never suggested a game of Risk.

“Can I ask you something?”

“Are you trying to buy time before you follow the fate of Napoleon?”

Yes. “Your book. Are you enjoying it?” It sat on his coffee table like it did now, always. The thousand page fantasy saga with the bookmark now nearing the back cover.

Chasten was slow to answer, as if racking his brain to find the trap in Pete’s question. “Immensely. I started the series years ago but didn’t have time to continue with the whole working three minimum wage jobs to stay alive thing. Of course, now the books have gone out of print, and some asshole reseller on Amazon is going to gauge me for the next one. Why?”

Pete shrugged. “Maybe I’m starting a book club.”

“You’ll have more time to work on it now that I’ve captured your army.”

Fuck.

When the next weekend rolled around, he almost forgot about the package he’d left wrapped on Chasten’s bed until Chasten came charging down the stairs clutching it in a manner that was strangely accusatory.

“What is this? You can’t get me gifts. What were you thinking?”

It was a copy of the third installment in the series.

“I was at the used book store and I found it in the clearance rack. I was thinking I was saving you from the clutches of the asshole resellers on Amazon. Obviously, I did not expect this level of gratitude.”

“I know you’re awkward and inexperienced, but you have to understand this is inappropriate. This is something a real boyfriend would get me, if I’d ever had a real boyfriend who was thoughtful enough. It’s confusing for me.”

Pete was not confused. Chasten wanted the book. Pete got Chasten the book. It was a simple transaction, the kind he made a dozen times a week. But being right was not worth the battle.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t know. I’ll take it back. Actually, the shop doesn't accept returns from the clearance rack. I could put it through the industrial shredder down at City Hall if that would help.”

“No, I… let’s just keep it professional in the future.”

Pete nodded. He would _never_ understand Chasten.

*****

“We have a problem.”

The problem was a picture some rando Instagamed of Pete and Chasten kissing in the parking lot of the local 12 screen cinema. It was a slightly blurry and poorly composed shot, but it was definitely them.

Chasten continued, “Trust me, I’ve put off having this conversation for as long as I could, but it’s time for a come-to-Jesus moment.”

“It was a quick peck on the lips. How could I have possibly done it wrong?”

“Read the comments.”

Surprisingly, there were sixteen comments. The entire point of their fake relationship had been to get potential voters invested in Pete’s personal life, but he was currently rethinking that strategy.

_Yo, South Bend, your mayor appears to be constipated._

_I’ve had hotter kisses from my eighty-five-year-old Great Aunt._

_I’m getting a very asexual vibe from the dark haired one. Not his boyfriend. That guy sucks cock for sure._

_Nice ass, though, right?_

“These people are perverts.”

“No, they’re human. A bit vulgar, and I don’t agree one can give off sexual identity ‘vibes,’ but what was otherwise incorrect?”

Defensiveness took over Pete. He wasn’t going to answer to a bunch of social media trolls. “Have you considered that you’re the problem? Maybe you’re the bad kisser.”

Chasten’s expression took on a dreamy, far off, appearance. “Oh, I have it on good authority that’s not the case.”

And then Chasten was smirking at him and he _winked_ , and he looked so smug and his eyes were so blue. And he was standing there all _smug_ and _blue-eyed_ and Pete couldn’t take another second of it. In his frustration, his brain stopped being able to produce synonyms, and that was making him even more flustered. All he could think about was wiping that smirk right off Chasten’s face.

When Pete was nine, his Dad stood in line overnight at the Circuit City to get him the newest Mario Kart game. Every other school aged boy in South Bend was green with envy. But then his friend Mark somehow managed to get a copy first, and when Pete found out, he went into the alley behind his house and kicked over a trash can. And then picked back up the trash because he wasn’t a hooligan.

He wanted to kick a trash can. He grabbed Chasten’s biceps and jerked him forward.

The kiss was clumsy and rough, with their teeth knocking together and their lips dry. But the adrenaline that had been coursing through Pete was quickly draining, and his brain was kicking in, along with all his old insecurities. There was something very, very wrong with him to have behaved this way. Chasten was going to slap him and disappear from his life for good and Pete would deserve it. Except, Chasten hadn’t broken contact, not even after the initial shock. Pete kept waiting to be shoved away, but instead Chasten settled his hands at Pete’s side and grabbed onto his shirt.

While Pete’s mind raced, his body switched to autopilot. The kiss slowed into something less frantic, more fluid. Pete somehow knew to tilt his head, to soften his movements, to open his mouth-- and he wondered how he knew to do any of this. He noticed for the first time that Chasten wore cologne, and Pete liked the old-fashionedness of it. The image of Chasten’s face, his eyes and his smile, came into focus again, but the thought was considerably less vexing than it had been a few moments earlier.

They finally broke apart, catching their breath.

“Wow. Okay, maybe I was the problem,” Chasten said. “What inspired that? Or rather who?”

The question caught Pete off guard. He didn’t know how to respond.

“Well, whoever it was, write them a thankyou note for me. I need to sit down.” Chasten slapped Pete on the back. “We’re going to pull this off after all.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AO3 does not make it easy to contact people. If you have a comment you don’t want published, a concern, or an invitation to join a cult, feel free to drop me a line at: tulipwriter@outlook.com.


	4. Chapter 4

\- THE TERMS -

“I’m bored,” Chasten said in a near whine.

Pete was up to his elbows in sudsy water, scrubbing the dishes from that night’s experimentation in cuisine. The deal was Pete would clean up if Chasten would cook, but Pete was rapidly concluding that he’d pulled the short straw. For his part, Chasten managed to dirty roughly forty dishes in an effort that produced about a pint’s worth of food. Pete thought wistfully of the refrigerator, which housed yesterday’s Chinese takeout leftovers and wondered if it would hurt Chasten’s feelings if he broke out the chopsticks. Fake dating was complicated.

“May I remind you that _you_ were the one who chose to cut your vacation short.”

A believer in all things good and civilized, Pete had worked three weeks of paid vacation into Chasten’s contract. Chasten took a week-long road trip, visiting a variety of friends and family. Or at least it was supposed to last a week. To Pete’s surprise, Chasten returned two days before schedule without explanation.

“Let’s binge watch some television.”

“I don’t have a television,” Pete said, wiping his hands on a dishtowel.

“The black box in your living room suggests otherwise.”

“It broke three months ago. I haven’t gotten around to replacing it.”

“We’ll use the one in my bedroom.”

Pete shook his head. “I don’t go into your room, Chasten. I promised from the beginning that would be a safe space for your exclusive use. If you recall, the one time I broke that rule it ended badly.”

“You’re telling me that for the past three months, you’ve avoided using the only working television in your home because you didn’t want to invade my personal space while my person was a hundred miles away in Chicago?”

“Yes.”

Chasten stared at him. Pete was used to Chasten staring at him, in those ways that seemed to communicate “are you for real?” and “is this my life now?” but this time his gaze continued on a beat too long and Pete started to feel a bit heated under the scrutiny.

“I should get back to the dishes.”

He returned to the sink, and figured Chasten would give up and retire for the rest of the evening, but then he heard Midwestern-nice cussing emanating from the living room, and discovered him in the process of swapping the television sets.

“Help me with the cables?”

Pete’s first instinct was to refuse the gesture, but instead he nodded and then dutifully aided in setting up the unit. Because nothing in his house was designed for modern life, it took half an hour and more than one extension cord.

Chasten stood back to admire its placement above the mantle. “It really fits the space. Besides, it made no sense for me to have this upstairs when we both spend our time in here.”

Chasten grabbed the remote and patted the sofa in invitation. Pete sat down, making sure there was an empty cushion between them. An episode of _Parks and Recreation_ started to play.

“This show is so unrealistic,” Chasten said a few minutes into the program.

Pete perked up, because he had always thought this. “I know, right? A town the size of Pawnee wouldn’t have a Parks Department with eight employees, and non-elected officials seem to hold all the municipal power. Also, the weather never seems to change. It’s Indiana. Where’s the snow?”

Chasten was staring at him again. “I was referring more to all the actors being hot and under the age of thirty-five, but, sure, we’ll go with your things.”

“There are young, attractive people in Indiana,” Pete bristled. In fact, an article appeared just that week in the _Tribune_ about how more graduates from Notre Dame were making South Bend their permanent home, driving new businesses and local investment. Pete was heavily quoted in it and had provided valuable insight into the issue. He made a mental note to cut out a copy of the article and slip it into Chasten’s overnight bag.

“You really ought to have a higher opinion of us Hoosiers,” Pete continued, “Seeing as you’re about to become one.”

The contract stipulated Chasten move in with Pete (still keeping his own private room, of course) and the clock was ticking down. 

“Don’t remind me,” Chasten groaned. “Haven’t you ever wondered what else is out there?”

“I grew up wondering about nothing else. But then I got out. I did the coastal liberal college thing. I studied in England, saw the pyramids, helped open an underground CIA base in Somaliland. I’ve been the poor intern for political campaigns and the executive with the corner office. The more I became the person I thought I was supposed to be, the stronger the pull I felt to come back home.”

“No place has ever felt like home to me. I’ll move to wherever I can rent a studio for under two thousand, and I frequently do.”

“That sounds exhausting.”

Chasten shrugged. “Got to keep ahead of ex-boyfriends and creditors somehow.”

“Do you think you might want to make your home here? In South Bend, I mean. Not in this house.”

“I get how much this city means to you, and you’ve clearly been programmed to extol its virtues on loop or else you’ll self-destruct. But this isn’t the place for me. No offense, but South Bend is basically a mid-tier college town surrounded by corn.”

It was the harshest thing anyone had ever said to him.

“Should have stayed on vacation, then,” Pete mumbled.

“I don’t actually think I owe you an explanation of how I choose to use or not use my personal time.” Chasten crossed his arms to signal the end of discussion. Then two minutes— or one Ron and Leslie sparring session— later: “If you must know, it’s because I’ve changed. It turns out I can’t just slip back into the old Chasten and take him out for a joy ride. I visited friends and realized I had nothing in common with them. I went to my favorite club and couldn’t wait to leave. I kept talking about sewer systems and civic responsibility and now everyone hates me.”

“Change can be good.”

“I’m not so sure.”

Pete turned his attention back to the screen, where Ben was defending the angry townspeople of Pawnee as “weirdos who care.” Chasten had become a weirdo who cared. And to a public servant like Pete that was everything. Not that he could exactly say any of that.

Instead he babbled. “Can you imagine if politicians like Ben Wyatt really existed?”

Chasten just barked out a laugh.

*****

Chasten draped a garment bag on the chair next to where Pete sat, sorting through receipts. “You’re taking me to the prom,” he announced. Gesturing to the bag, he added: “You couldn’t be trusted to select your own attire.”

Pete groaned. Spending an evening chaperoning a bunch of kids trying to grind up against each other was not his idea of a good time. “Who signed me up for this?”

“I did.” Chasten handed Pete an embossed invitation. “It’s Pride Prom. It’s a non-traditional prom for LGBT kids who don’t feel comfortable attending a mainstream one. It’s also open to older students who maybe missed out the first time around. The organizers invite you every year.”

“How did I not know about this?”

Chasten shrugged. “You probably get invited to every wedding, quinceanera, and bris in town. Your office isn’t going to bog you down with this stuff. But it would mean a lot to these kids for their Mayor to show up and show his support.”

That sounded more meaningful than what he’d originally assumed. “Count me in.”

Pete didn’t miss the way Chasten’s expression brightened. 

“I was really prepared to fight you more on this.”

He shrugged. “Give it five minutes and I’m sure we’ll find something else to argue about.”

“I wish something like this had existed when I was in school.”

“You didn’t go to your prom?”

This surprised him. Granted, he had only gone to his own out of social obligation, but Chasten struck him as the type who would embrace all those so-called rites of passage. In many ways, Chasten was the most traditional person he knew. Homophobic zealots the country over would be shattered to discover that the “gay agenda” was basically banal Americana.

Chasten looked away. “It was what it was.”

Pete started to suspect their attendance was important to more than just “the kids.”

“It’s this Friday evening, so we’ll meet up at your office and go from there?”

“No.”

Chasten sighed. “I knew it was too easy. I’m not making an excuse for you, Pete. If you’re going to beg out on a bunch of kids who have probably been let down by authority figures their whole lives, you’re on your own. I won’t do your dirty work.”

Suspicions confirmed.

“Chasten, you misunderstand my objections. My parents raised me to be a gentleman, and you are my date. If we’re going to do this, we’re going to do it right. I’ll pick _you_ up at six.”

There was palpable relief in Chasten’s posture, and Pete bit back a smirk. It was endearing, how much Chasten wanted this.

That’s how, four days later, he found himself on his own doorstep, ringing the bell to his own house, wondering how long it was going to take before Chasten realized he was being summoned. He finally emerged, sporting a deep aubergine suit paired with a black tie and sleek black patent leather shoes.

“Is that the suit I rented for you?”

Pete glanced down at the ash colored three piece he’d changed into at his office. He twisted from side to side, expecting to find some kind of tear. It did fit rather close to his form now that he was thinking of it, but he’d assumed that was the style? His team had his measurements on file, but maybe the months of being sucked into the comforts of being a homebody were starting to catch up with him.

“What’s wrong? Did I stain it?”

“No, it’s fine. It’s good.” Chasten audibly cleared his throat. “I just… um… should have gotten you a different suit.”

Pete didn’t know how to respond. Luckily he had a prop to fill the conversational void. He opened the plastic clamshell and pulled out a boutonniere made of a white camellia flower.

“You didn’t seem like a rose guy,” Pete said, pinning it onto Chasten’s lapel. “It matches your dress shirt. Lucky guess.”

“You did good. It’s perfect.”

“That’s nothing. You should see our ride.”

Pete was particularly proud of the cherry red, 1962 Studebaker Lark parked in front of the house. It was part of a private collection held by a local venture capitalist and obtaining it for the evening had required cashing in several favors.

“Nice,” Chasten said.

Pete didn’t like his tone. It was a tone that said, “this is nice.” When he’d anticipated something more akin to, “this is the most excited I’ve ever been.”

“That’s it?”

He shrugged. “I’m not a car guy.”

“Neither am I. But this isn’t a car, this is a _Studebaker_.”

“I think that distinction means more to you than it does me.” Chasten paused. “Thank you, for everything. I know it’s not my real prom, but if it were, I could do worse than having you as my date.”

Pete felt the barest hint of color flushing his face. “Chasten, I read the rules. You qualify to attend as a grad student. This is your real prom. I can’t undo time and go back to your hometown and make things different for you. But I hope you’ll find this a suitable substitute.”

For a couple of moments, neither of them spoke.

“Can I drive?” Chasten asked.

“Absolutely not.”

*****

They were in aisle eight of Martin’s, and Pete was aware that Chasten was getting annoyed at his inability to just choose a loaf of bread.

“These prices are criminal,” Pete complained.

Chasten pointed to a smashed and open bag of wonderbread, bits strewn about, left on the ground for the poor staff to clean. “Look, that bread has the same hairline as you.”

Pete rolled his eyes and put the first loaf he could reach into the cart. “I’ll get the mayo next. Grab the yogurt?”

A couple of months earlier, Chasten and Pete realized their homelife improved when they did the grocery shopping together. No more of Pete ignoring half the list and returning home with just salt and fifteen cans of chili. No more produce rotting in the fridge because Chasten was positive they would eat through several pounds of starfruit. Pete didn’t hate the new routine. It was nice, having a friend to do menial tasks with.

He was exiting the condiments aisle, when he caught a glimpse of what looked like a man accosting Chasten over at the dairy case. He was standing very close and waving his arms wildly. In response, Chasten wasn’t doing… anything. He appeared almost frozen.

“And you tell that husband of yours to stop dicking with the roads!”

“What’s going on here?” Pete protectively wedged his cart between Chasten and the man.

“I’m simply having a nice chat with your boy toy here, Mr. Mayor. Nothing to get concerned over.”

“All the same, I think this conversation is over.”

After the man had left them, Pete turned to Chasten, who was staring blankly at the yogurts.

“Are you okay?” Pete asked even though it was clear to him that Chasten was not, in fact, okay.

“I can take care of myself.”

“I don’t doubt that, but it looked like you needed help. Needing help isn’t bad, you know. Do you want to talk about it, whatever it was that caused you to shut down like that?”

Pete moved to wrap his arm around to comfort Chasten, who ducked out of his grasp.

“You don’t need to do that.”

“What? Because of that guy?”

“No,” Chasten said. “It’s not that. This is something I’ve meant to bring up for a while. The public completely buys us as a couple. The touches and public affection aren’t necessary anymore. We don’t need to keep selling it.”

Except that wasn’t what Pete had been trying to do.

“Yeah, sure. Whatever you think is best.”

*****

The night had started with high hopes. Hubris, in retrospect. Snacks were laid out on the coffee table. A half bottle of wine sat untouched. The school work Chasten meant to give his attention while the results came in were spread across the couch, abandoned. Pete stopped responding to his texts.

They stared at the television screen, horrified.

Florida fell. Virginia wasn’t called at 7:00 as expected. Wisconsin, Michigan, Pennsylvania were all too close to call. Even Minnesota was colored an ominous shade of who-the-fuck-knows. John King’s map was dying of exhaustion. MSNBC was handing out Xanax.

“I can’t believe it.” Pete had fought in a war, but this was the first time he’d felt shell shocked.

“Well, I can. I’ve seen enough. I’m going to bed.”

It occurred to Pete right then, what this meant for someone like Chasten. Pete could feel all the confusion and anger he wanted, but Chasten had to live in President Elect Donald Trump’s country as a gay man.

“I’m so sorry Chasten.”

“For what? That my countrymen proved they hate people like me at least a little more than they despise Trump? Or are you sorry for thinking this country was more progressive than it is? For gambling your entire political career on the belief that a straight womanizing pig _couldn’t_ become president?”

“I’m not thinking about my career right now. It’s not over, Chasten. There will be protests and marches. We can get involved and help organize them here in the heartland. If we send a loud enough message, the electoral college might not even seat him. This country belongs to us.”

“You are so painfully naive sometimes. You’re not thinking about your career tonight, but you will be. Once Trump is inaugurated and life settles down, you will be. And I’m not sure being a gay guy is how you’re going to want to play this. You have real decisions to make about whether you want to continue with this project.”

“We have a contract,” Pete said, helplessly. Chasten couldn’t leave. They were building something here, him and the rest of the team. He couldn’t just _leave_.

“Right. The contact. Good night, Peter.”

Pete heard the door to Chasten’s bedroom thud. In the background, Wolf Blitzer officially projected the winner of the 2016 election. Pete made his way over to a bottle of scotch and fell asleep at his desk.

*****

The little card read _Happy Birthday_. It was gracious enough not to mention which birthday. He opened the box and pulled out a watch.

“Do you like it? I picked it out. Something about it simply screamed President Peter Paul Montgomery Buttigieg.” Chasten grabbed it from him and set about attaching it to Pete’s wrist.

Pete nodded. He did like it. It was perfect, actually. Dark face, gold metal, and from a brand he stalked online.

“I’m glad, because it has an entire mythology surrounding it,” Chasten said. “The story goes like this: I’m taking a trip abroad without you, the reason is TBD, but my plane almost crashes. It forces me to realize I can’t go one more moment without pledging my eternal love for you. You fly out to meet me, and I propose with this watch.”

Pete swallowed. “Quite a tale.”

“Best thing is you can use it for the next decade. Everyone will know what it means, and when you wear it on the campaign trail, people will think you’re pining after your long lost love. Don’t discount the sympathy vote.” Chasten finished buckling the leather strap. “It looks good on you.”

And it did look good on him, but Pete wanted to shove it back into it’s stupid box. He hated this story where Chasten almost dies. Hated that this was as close as he’d ever get to an engagement. Hated that for the next ten years he was going to be expected to wear this thing and think about Chasten. 

Chasten, who would be long gone.

*****

“I’m fairly sure this is a felony.”

Pete pouted from the passenger’s seat, wearing the blindfold Chasten had insisted on, only able to sneak peaks of light if he looked downwards. He had spent the last twenty minutes thinking about how Chasten needed to vacuum out his car.

Pete swore he could feel Chasten’s eyes roll. “I’m trying to surprise you.”

“I don’t think the court is going to see it that way.”

Chasten sighed. “Things between us have been off. It’s Valentine's Day, and I want us to have a good time. So will you allow me to do this nice thing for you? Can you stop being a control freak for one second?

Pete humphed and slunk down in his seat.

When the blindfold was removed, Pete found himself standing outside what appeared to be an abandoned storefront. “Where are we?”

“It’s South Bend’s first bacon-themed restaurant. Every item on the menu involves at least three cuts of pig. It’s not open until next month, but I got us a preview. You’re not the only one in this town with connections.”

An entire restaurant devoted to bacon? Pete was in awe.

“We already did a staged Valentine’s dinner. At Le Bec-Fin, weeks ago. The pictures will probably be up on Instagram in the next couple of hours.”

“Le Bec-Fin had tiny portions of foam food. This place has no foam, and if you eat two pounds of maple bacon, you get to take home a commemorative bib. And if we go inside and take some selfies to post them first, your communication manager’s head will probably explode. There’s only upside.”

Pete was happily polishing off a pulled pork BLT the size of his copy of _Capital_ when he decided to offer Chasten a job. The idea had been ruminating in his head for a while, and now seemed as good a time as any to share it.

“A job,” Chasten repeated, putting down his fork.

“I need help getting my PAC up and running,” Pete explained. “You’d remain on my team, but this time in an official capacity. You would have to stay in South Bend, but the pay is good and there’s travel perks. I have a lot of donors in Napa. You have talent for this business, Chasten. Stay in politics and help me do some more good.”

“Pete, I don’t think…”

They were interrupted by the pastry chef, who’d come to take their dessert order.

“Tyler?” Chasten said.

From then there was hugging and rounds of “I didn’t know _you_ lived here.” Pete was inexplicably grumpy about their reunion.

He stayed grumpy on the ride home, internally loathing Tyler’s existence. He and Chasten were getting along so well tonight, with Chasten cracking jokes at his expense like old times. Then Tyler came along and ruined it. And who did Chasten think he was kidding? Tyler was “an old friend from college.” Pete wasn’t stupid. As for Chasten’s mysterious “connections” that got them into the restaurant, well, it was all making sense now.

“What is with you?” Chasten asked after parking his car in front of Pete’s garage.

“We had an agreement,” Pete said. He might have slammed the car door behind him.

Chasten followed him into the kitchen. “Meaning?”

Pete grabbed the first of what he assumed would be many beers he would be drinking that night. “You were supposed to come to me first. That’s all I asked. I could have arranged a safe house outside of town. Now what happens when word gets out you’re fucking the cake baker?”

“You’re psychotic. I’m not sleeping with Tyler.”

Pete tossed his bottle cap across the room. “Please. You think I fell off the turnip truck?”

“When you use phrases like that, yes. Tyler and I went on a couple of dates years ago. The relationship didn’t go anywhere and I have no desire to resume it. And you’re being pretty homophobic right now in assuming two gay men can’t be friends.”

Chasten stomped up the stairs and Pete followed him, not content to let Chasten have the last word.

“Well, _when_ you start fucking him, I’d appreciate a heads up. For logistical purposes.”

Pete had no idea what he was doing. Was he really going to torpedo his relationship with a close friend because he felt betrayed? Apparently, he was, and he didn’t understand this monster overtaking him.

”Oh, fuck you, Pete.”

Chasten brushed past him and went into his room. Pete hung back, wincing in anticipation of the door slam. But it didn’t come. They locked into a silent battle, Pete on one side of the frame and Chasten on the other, neither daring to move.

“You have a very important choice to make here. I can shut this door, and we’ll never talk about this again.”

“Or?” Pete heard himself saying.

“You can take a step forward and we blow this thing up. But it’ll be one hell of a night.”

Pete’s nerves were on fire. “Which one of those options do you want?”

“The same one I suspect you do.”

Pete took a step forward.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You guys, I am working on this. I extra super promise.


End file.
